Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (20 page)

After a few moments of walking along the clean corridors, he moved down several escalators and arrived at the passport check hall. All EU members were being directed one way, everyone else to the left, and he headed in the direction of the EU queue. The man had the best fake passport money could buy, and his dark features backed up the Spanish passport's credentials.

When it was his turn he moved forward and passed over his documents to the man at the desk. The guy looked at his photograph, then back at him, and the small man noticed his surprise as he saw his scars.

‘Purpose of visit?’

‘Visiting friends.’

He could see his scars were attracting the man’s attention.

'Boiling water. When I was a child,' the small man said, in as good a Spanish accent as he could muster. He said it with a smile and a look that said
I've had to explain this many
times before, but I'll do it again for you
. It had actually been from a phosphorous grenade that had gone off right by his ear, but he figured it probably wouldn’t be
a great
idea to tell the official that.

After a few moments pause and another quick glance at the scars, the guy stamped the man's passport, handing it back with a nod.

'Enjoy your visit.
Next
,' he called, looking at the next person in the queue.

The small man took his passport and moved on towards the Arrivals Hall.

He walked through Customs under the
Nothing to Declare
banner, seeing the one-way mirrored glass and feeling eyes upon him from people behind. Then he walked through a set of double doors and arrived in the Arrivals Hall. It was pretty busy, lots of people milling about, sunlight streaming in through the long windows. He scanned the building, looking left and right, searching for a familiar face. Soon, he found it, a big man leaning against the far wall by the long glass windows, his superior officer, Spider. He was wearing a sweater, but had the sleeves pushed up, and Bug saw the spider-web tattoos covering each of his forearms. He walked over to the second-in-command of the Black Panthers. Spider saw him coming, and kicked off the wall. The two men shook hands as other passengers and travellers moved past them towards the exits.

'Any trouble?' Spider, asked in Albanian, his voice low, looking down at the smaller man.

'None, sir.'

'The target?'

'Gone. He suffered.'

Spider nodded. 'Good.'  His smiled faded. 'Crow and Grub failed. They're both dead.'

The smaller man turned and looked out the window. 'Shit.'

'Yes. But it's OK. We'll handle it.'

Bug looked around. 'Where's Bird?'

'He won't be here for another few hours. He's flying in from Connecticut.'

There was a pause. Then they both turned and walked across the hall to the exit and the taxi rank. They saw a queue was forming down the pavement to their left, an airport worker ushering people into line, but Spider ignored them and raised his arm to hail a passing taxi. He got lucky with the second one that passed, and the black vehicle pulled up. Both men stepped inside, pulling the doors shut behind them. Spider gave the driver
directions, the man nodding as Spider told him where to go, and the vehicle moved off, headed into the centre of London.

Back at the hospice, two fire engines had arrived.
A
team of firemen were holding the big hose and dousing the two cars, the water spraying over the blackened shells of the vehicles, the flames pretty much extinguished. The cars had been totalled by the explosions, both now just charred skeletons, hundreds of thousands of pounds gone in a second, along with the kid who’d tried to steal the Mercedes. Back inside the hospice, nurses were quickly checking on each patient. Fortunately, the bulk of the rooms were past the security door the other side of the building so none of them had been affected by the explosion.

By the front entrance, Archer took a good look at the smoking wreckage, then walked down the path towards Agent Jackson, who was standing watching the fire-team work, Archer’s boots crunching on the smashed glass of the entrance windows as he walked.

'Thank God for thieves,' Archer said to him. 'Never thought I'd hear myself say that.'

'They followed us here,' Jackson replied. 'They must have put the devices under the cars when we were inside.'

Archer nodded, and looked around the car park, sensing Jackson’s tension beside him. A small crowd had gathered outside the gates, much as it had back at the ARU's headquarters after the gunfight, but he looked at the tall office buildings around them, every window a possible threat point.

Behind the two men, Cobb reappeared, Chalky, Porter and Fox alongside him, the four men walking outside to join the other two by the entrance. None of them had noticed the receptionist glare at them as they passed her desk. They hadn’t exactly added to the calming atmosphere of the hospice since they’d arrived.

'Mason and Spitz are on their way with two cars,' Cobb told Archer and Jackson, putting his mobile phone into his pocket. 'We go straight back to headquarters.'

He turned to Jackson.

‘From there, you can either stay with us or head back to the Embassy.’

‘I’m staying,’ he said, nodding his head at the four task force officers. ‘Truth be told, I’m liking this armed escort more and more.’

Cobb nodded. ‘OK.’

'What about Fletcher?' Archer asked.

'What about him?' Chalky said.

'They'll know he's here by now, Chalk,' Archer said, turning to him. 'He'll be one of the top names on their list.'

'So? The man said he's ready to die.'

'So why don’t you go in there and do him yourself?' Archer said, his irritation rising

'Relax you two,' Cobb said. 'It's OK. There are two armed officers from an ARV on their way down already. Fletcher is staying. He's too sick to move. But they'll be guarding the desk and his door
'til
this is over.'

The group of men nodded, and they all looked back across the parking lot at the smoking ruins of the two cars.

Cobb saw the destroyed shell of his Mercedes.

‘Thank God for thieves,’ he muttered under his breath.

At the command post across town, the leader of the Panthers was in a foul mood. He rose and kicked his chair across the room, letting out a long stream of expletives in Albanian. It had all started so well. Worm had tailed the group to the hospice, then moved around the building and saw which room they entered. He got a glimpse of the man in the bed before they closed the curtains, and there was no mistaking who it was. Corporal Simon Fletcher, the missing man from the list, the last piece of the puzzle. Once the curtains were drawn and his view obstructed, Worm had moved back into the quiet parking lot and taking advantage of no one being around, had quickly placed the two devices under each car. Both charges were hooked up to the ignition, and would detonate once they received a current. Worm had taken up surveillance in a coffee shop across the street, waiting for the men to leave and to watch Cobb and Jackson die.

But then some lowlife kid had car-jacked the Mercedes and blown himself and the two vehicles up, saving Cobb, Jackson and their four-man escort. Worm had slipped away down the street immediately, calling his commanding officer and letting him know what had happened.

The big soldier was furious.

Three times these two men had cheated death today. But rather than make him desperate, their run of luck made the man even more determined to kill them. He realised
that without these setbacks, this would all be too easy. Their revenge was systematic but not sweet. He would have to earn the deaths of Cobb and Jackson.

He would have to get it done himself.

Taking deep breaths and getting a grip on his fiery temper, he walked across the room and scooped up the chair, bringing it back to the table and sat down. Anger wouldn't achieve anything here. He needed to think clearly with a level head. Feeling his white-hot rage start to evaporate like mist, he leaned back in his chair and looked at the selection of weapons lying on the floor across the dark safe-house. Two of the Kalashnikovs were gone, but they still had five left, as well as all the silenced MP5s, Dragunov, bazooka and thousands of rounds of ammunition.

Looking at the guns, he started to form a plan of attack. They had gone to visit Fletcher, so clearly they had put two and two together and realised what this was about. Cobb and the American would most likely head back to the ARU police station. They’d been taken by surprise before, but now would be on their guard and would figure they could foil another attempt. After reconnaissance, Worm had told him that there were armed officers stationed at the entrance of the building, just inside in the reception area. If either Cobb or Jackson left, they would go to a safe-house or into hiding somewhere. The Panthers had a number of options. It depended on which choice the two men took.

He started running different scenarios through his mind, different plans of attack. Spider and Bug were on their way here, and together with their commanding officer and Worm, the quartet would get this done once and for all.

No mistakes this time. 

Both Cobb and Jackson would be dead before midnight.

SEVENTEEN

After Deakins and Spitz had arrived with the two replacement black 4x4 Fords MI6 had supplied, Cobb, Jackson and First Team had piled in and left Fletcher, the hospice and the two smoking wrecks of the cars behind. As they got into the vehicles, Cobb had ordered the two drivers to take a different route back to the Unit’s headquarters, regardless of the time it would add to the journey. And thirty five minutes later, the men found Nikki waiting for them inside the briefing room at the ARU's headquarters when they walked in.

She had been working hard since they’d left and had drawn up a chart on a board on the wall with the list of names Cobb had given her. In total, there were eleven photographs stuck on the board, forming a makeshift pyramid. 

At the top were two men, Cobb and Jackson, the two men who had run Operation Blackout. Both photos were official ones from the file, and they were stuck side-by-side. Below them, the other nine were separated into three columns of three, neatly spaced out. The team looked at them closely. To the left were the three soldiers from the British Army, half of the rescue team from that night.
Adams, McCarthy
and
King
. Adams’ photo had a big
X
over it, but the other two were untouched. In the middle were
Spears, Fraser
and
Webster
, the three U.S Rangers, the other half of the rescue team. There were two big
X
’s over Spears and Webster.

And to the far right were the three former hostages.

Carver, Floyd
and
Fletcher
.

Archer looked at the top two photographs, putting faces to the names of the two men. The photos were from some old military file, both guys dark-featured with short buzz-cuts and pale faces. Carver’s lips were almost sneering, his brown eyes glinting with arrogance, whilst Floyd’s expression was blank, just staring straight ahead. The two faces were forgettable. Archer pictured them both going berserk with M16s, mowing down women and children in a dark camp somewhere out on the plains in Kosovo.

Not a pleasant thought.

Shifting his gaze, Archer looked at the photo of Fletcher below them and was taken aback. It was an old photo and not an official one, but nevertheless Fletcher looked like a completely different person from the frail, damaged man in the hospice bed. In the picture he looked strong, healthy and confident, full of vitality, wearing a beret and his combat fatigues and smiling at the camera. He was about a hundred pounds heavier and a
hundred times happier. The person in the hospice was just a withered shell of this man, like the skin that was left behind after being shed by a snake.

‘Here you are, sir,’ Nikki said. ‘I hope these are the right men. I heard about the cars. Are you OK?’

'We’re fine,' Cobb said, examining the board. 'And yes, these are the right men. I recognise them all. Outstanding work.'

He paused and stepped forward, tapping Webster's photograph on the board. Archer saw he was a blond-haired guy, dressed in desert combat fatigues, a similar photo to the one of Adams. He had a big black
X
across the photograph, concealing most of his face and features.

'They got to Webster?' Cobb asked her.

Nikki shook her head.

'No, sir. He was killed in Iraq, 2004.
Stood
on an IED.'

Cobb nodded, then stepped
back, examining the board with the other men. He turned to Jackson, and Archer saw his face harden.

'So, CIA Deputy Director Carver was behind this?'

'It was classified,' Jackson said. 'You know the way it works. I couldn’t have told you.'

'I don't believe this. I was the one running the damn operation. I needed to be given the facts.'